HEADLINES

Hondo Has My Hair

Posted on: 05/17/2017 00:00

(By John Boston) Decades later, I still haven’t gotten used to it that The Baby, aka, my sibling-like substance Hondo Boston, is driving. That’s him in the photo above. Adding insult to injury, “Hondo,” is the choreographer for the Rams’ cheerleaders. Spit on him. Not only that, he’s 50-something. Birthdays like that are forgivable, even though it encourages people to ciphering.

“Well. If Hondo’s 53. And he’s (your hand darts out to cover their mouth in case someone’s eavesdropping) years younger than you — why — that makes you (your hand darts out to cover their mouth in case someone’s eavesdropping) years old! Ahahahaha ha-ha!”

Darn guy. 53. You know the worst part? To quote Warren Zevon, in “Werewolves of London,” “…and his hair was just — PERFECT.”

My hair? It’s not so perfect. I know. I’m to blame. I honor the Japanese side of the Boston family by wearing it samurai style.

Cropped very, very, very tightly on the top with nicely trimmed side panels. It takes more daily work, in a zen sort of way, plus, I guess you can just call me a sentimental fool when it comes to my ancient warrior traditions.

“I’m not bald. I just cut it this way,” I tell people.

I’m not sure anyone believes me.

Looking back, it seems like the gods set into motion some grand, cosmic conspiracy against me. I came into this world bald as a cue ball. Through childhood, my father, Walt, had a penchant for doling out comic haircuts. I either had rock-a-billy hoodlum jellyrolls as a child or a Charles Manson/mad 12th-century monk butch. When I became old enough to declare my follicle independence, my father turned his minimalist artistic impressions on my dog.

During my adult years, I had this great little companion. Joyful. Affable. Affectionate. A great listener. Loyal. Supportive. Grateful to know me. No. It wasn’t an ex-wife. It was this little happy-go-lucky soul, a Bichon frise named Nicky.

They don’t teach this in school. It’s nowhere in the Bible. As for the Koran or teachings of Confucius, I cannot say. But, unless it’s a Code Red Emergency or someone’s about to die, you should never shave a dog’s head.

It’s wrong.

You should never shave a dog’s head especially when he’s got a thick Brady Bunch curly white Afro.

I had to spend the day in L.A. once and left Nicky in the care of my father. When I jogged into the perverse performance art/bedlam wing that was my childhood home, there to greet me were my father and my dog. My dog was shivering like a whore at 10 o’clock Easter Sunday High Mass.

Nicky still had that patented little ball of fluffy white fur body. But Dad had taken the clippers, or, perhaps, hedge clippers or a chain saw, clicked the offending machinery into Planet Destroyer Level 12 and scalped him like Dad was Chief Crazy Horse and Nicky was Nameless Unfortunate 7th Cavalry Officer No. 4 in the 1941 Errol Flynn/Custer’s Last Stand flick, They Died With Their Boots On.